Bad Day
by Laura Messer
Summary: An evening at home with Phil and Clint in a universe where Clint suffers from depression.


**I hope this doesn't offend anyone or seem presumptuous but this is what I'm familiar with and what I feel helps. As I wrote, Depression is different for everyone, and not everyone can be helped, but I am around and always willing to talk. Always Keep Fighting.**

 **This doesn't address any of the films or comics but I just wanted to work my feelings into a comforting fic, with one of my all-time favourite OTPs. I will continue this series and Clint and Phil's fight against depression if you guys want?**

 **Keep reviewing and doing your thing! XXX**

"Today?" This was no longer a question to Phil, it was a statement which his husband answered with either of two words. He just said it, like a force of habit. The chosen word would determine Phil's outlook on the rest of the evening. He knew Clint wouldn't want him to completely leave his plans and thoughts to coddle him. That's not what this was. That's not what Phil wanted. That's definitely not what was healthy.

The word would determine how he spoke to his husband. What he asked. What he told. What he did. Clint didn't need or want Phil to think carefully about what he did for him based on the word, Phil already walked on eggshells and balanced every action at work; he didn't need it at home. But this was not an option to Phil. His husband needed to be comforted and helped sometimes, and good luck to anyone who tried to even _attempt_ to stop him from being there for Clint. He loved him unconditionally and he would prove his love over and over until Clint no longer needed proof or Phil died. He hoped the former would happen before the latter.

How Phil deals with the answer differs most times. Usually, Clint decides what he needs and what will help. He hates being vulnerable and 'weak' but it's inevitable, this is just what happens and he still has to learn to trust in Phil to help and care for him; no tricks, no traps, no tantrums.

Phil knows not to say "I understand" because he can never completely understand, no one can. This is different for everyone, different symptoms, different treatment and different extremes. It's enough for him to ask "What would you like for dinner?", "What film do you want to watch?", even "What do you want to do?"; all of these options give Clint control, they let him help himself with Phil's aid.

"Bad." Clint answered as he traipsed through the living room from the front door. Losing both work boots, his tac jacket, his bag with quiver placement and his steeled assassin mask from the day.

Clint finally _breathed_. His shoulders loosened and fell. His eyes drooped. His whole body slumped. He was secure, safe, unjudged with Phil. No longer _Hawkeye_ or _Agent Barton_. He was _Clint._

He proceeded to manoeuvre himself until he had his waist and legs between Phil's legs, arms grasping and anchoring around Phil's chest and his head hidden in Phil's neck and upper torso on the couch in their apartment. He breathed deeply in Phil's neck. Phil's smell reassured him, keeping him in _now_ , not the future of missions and headshots, not the past of abuse and pain; the comforting mix of washing powder, oak wood (he still doesn't know why) and _Phil_. Phil knew this. He knew that some days his husband needed him to just hold him and squeeze him tightly into his warmth, keeping him safe from both the outer and inner demons.

Phil doesn't need to ask why Clint's day was bad. There wasn't a reason for a day to be bad. He couldn't pick or choose bad or good days. Most days, now, they were good. After… Loki… it was five or six days out of a week that were 'bad'. It's just, maybe, a day or two a month recently. Usually Clint was perfectly fine and his day was quiet and normal, but it was still _bad_. There wasn't a chart. There was good or bad. No real in between. It generally hit home in the evenings, the darkness becoming an outlet for each and every snarking voice to fill the blackening void. No worry, doubt or fear was unturned or hidden; he was drifting, unsure and distant; those were classified as bad. Other days he'd be perfectly fine, joking around, surveying from vents, playing pranks and not really remembering the bad day previously.

He talked. When he could. Sometimes it was better not to. Clint wasn't able to comprehend or explain it to Phil fully. It pained him that he couldn't totally understand something that overwhelms his husband so thoroughly and constantly. Therapy wouldn't help. Clint had told Phil of previous experiences with counsellors and group therapy and meditation and multiple other tactics. None had worked for Clint. And that wasn't uncommon. Phil had vigorously researched it as soon as Clint had warned him before 'jumping into a relationship' with him, as Clint had put it, even though they had been essentially dating for seven years (according to every Agent above Level 4). He had never really noticed before they had gotten together. Well, Clint was _the_ secret agent, super spy, world's-best marksman. If he didn't want people to know, they wouldn't. Which was what had surprised Phil the most when Clint explained he had tried all of these therapies _willingly_. And drugs were out of the option.

Clint was a hero in his own right. Phil was beyond proud of him. Coping and enduring and surviving are one thing. Dealing with and living and enjoying are another, which Clint strives for.

This "weakness" would not control him. The bouts of exhaustion, the _bad_ days, the driftingand everything in between and outside of it. Nothing would stop him from doing his job and doing it _damn_ well. But that didn't mean he _wouldn't_ refrain from talking to his husband or show this weakness or hide or be shameful or (manically) laugh it off or want to give up… _He does_. On occasion. **This shit is difficult.** Sometimes because of it, sometimes in spite of it. By himself… _Alone_ … It has a liability to overwhelm and consume him… especially with his background. But, Phil is here now and he will be here to the very end, however close it truly is.

Hey, you know how the saying goes… When you can't walk, crawl. When you can't crawl, find someone to carry you.

That's all Clint had hoped for, all he ached for, and now he had it.

Fuck _them_ , Fuck _FUBAR'd missions_ , Fuck _ignorant bastards_ , Fuck _bullies_ , Fuck _abuse_ , Fuck _bad days_ and most of all, **FUCK DEPRESSION**.

'Cos, guess what? We all have a Phil who can hug away all the bad days and kiss our way into the good ones.

If not. We can share?

Not the kissing. He's still mine… but I'm willing to give out some hugs?


End file.
